


and his banner over me was love

by peacefrog



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Masturbation, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-11 21:40:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12944514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peacefrog/pseuds/peacefrog
Summary: Tomas wakes, and he smiles, and Marcus smiles back, unaware of the weight of it.This could be enough, he thinks.This could be.





	and his banner over me was love

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place during the six month gap between seasons one and two.

This is how it begins:

Tomas touches him, and it’s like a kiss, Marcus thinks. Like the wind rushing over his skin. Marcus flushes down to his toes, feeling foolish. A boy with a crush, flustered by the whisper of fingers at his elbow.

“Are you coming?” 

Tomas gazes back at him, and Marcus’ breath catches in his chest. “Of course,” he says.

Of course.

—

Hours on the road blur together. Knoxville to Chattanooga to Birmingham. They check into motels under fake names and for days they have no destination.

“Bennett’s not answering,” says Marcus, rubbing at his neck. The weight of the collar not there stifling.

“He will,” says Tomas, with a smile so reassuring Marcus allows himself to believe. Allows himself to smile in return.

They get a room just outside of Biloxi and find a bar near the water. Tomas gets drunk on three beers and Marcus watches him, laughing, as he tries to work the jukebox. 

At last call they go down to the little strip of sand behind the bar, the ocean quietly terrifying in the dark. They sit near the shore and let the waves lap at their bare feet.

Tomas is warm, radiating heat at Marcus’ side. He laughs quietly to himself, then turns to Marcus. “If someone had told me in seminary that one day I’d be on a road trip with an old priest exorcising demons…”

Marcus laughs. “Are you taking the piss again, Tomas?”

Tomas feigns hurt, his drunk-flushed face lighting up the dark. “I would never.”

There is a quiet between them, and a calm. The ocean roars her song in the minutes that stretch on in silence. Marcus drifts, staring down at his hands.

“Are you alright?” Tomas’ voice comes to pull Marcus from the fog.

Marcus becomes suddenly aware of his own face, the heavy tug of his frowning. His eyes find Tomas’ in the dark. “Never better.”

—

Marcus folds himself into sleep and doesn’t dream. He wakes with a stiff back and aching hands and looks over at Tomas, in his own bed, sleep softening all his edges. Marcus allows himself to feel what it would be like to curl up at his side. To wrap their limbs together beneath a tangle of sheets.

Tomas wakes, and he smiles, and Marcus smiles back, unaware of the weight of it. 

This could be enough, he thinks. 

This could be.

—

The branches on the pages of Marcus’ bible are all tangled together. Not a forest any longer, but a mass. A sharp web of memory blurred by years. 

Behind his eyes he sees the bluebells. He feels the bark beneath his hands. The canopy is all mangled if he looks too high, so he keeps his eyes set low, scanning the forest floor. In the distance, the echo of his mother’s laugh.

“Marcus?”

The curve of Tomas’ hand pulls him from his trance. Marcus stands in the middle of the motel parking lot, gripping the soft leather of his bible. And Tomas is touching him, a hand curved around his shoulder, his face etched with concern.

“Where did you go?”

“I’m here with you,” says Marcus. “Just here.”

—

The sodium lights in the parking light are harsh on their skin. They sit on the open tailgate of the truck drinking beers, listening to the chirp of the night.

“Do you ever think about being with someone?” Tomas asks, lips brushing the neck of his beer bottle. “You could do that now.”

An aching spreads behind Marcus’ ribs. “Why give up a lifetime of chastity now? Maybe I’m going for the record.”

“I’m sure much older priests than you have died virgins.”

It’s the way that he says it that pulls the laugh deep from Marcus’ belly. The half-drunk indifference. So matter-of-fact. Marcus falls flat on his back into the bed of the truck with tears streaming from his eyes.

“I’m not a priest, Tomas,” he says, finally, wiping his face with a shirtsleeve.

—

The next day, Bennett finally answers, and points them in the direction of a case. Twin possessions just outside of St. Louis. Two children strapped to two beds for two weeks in a little room with the windows nailed shut.

When it’s finished, Marcus barely makes it through the doorway of their motel room before collapsing to the floor.

“Marcus.” Tomas kneels down and puts his hands on him where he’s curled up on the carpet. “Marcus, look at me.”

“Behold the cross of the Lord.”

“Marcus…”

“And flee bands of enemies.”

“We need to get you in bed.”

Marcus digs his fingers into the carpet, the edges of the fibers rough as sand. Tomas’ hand is at his nape, the other warm against his back. And then Marcus is being lifted, and Tomas is grunting with the weight of him, and as gently as he can Tomas lowers him onto the creaking bed.

“I worry about you, Tomas,” says Marcus, half out of his mind with exhaustion. Emptiness.

“It’s been months, and still you don’t trust me. You’ve barely slept in weeks.”

“Trust has nothing to do with it,” says Marcus, but the words come out a jumble of slurs.

Tomas presses a hand to Marcus’ forehead. “Rest.”

And Marcus does, though he is aching.

—

Marcus wakes, showers, brushes his teeth. Bennett calls with another case.

“We can go tomorrow,” says Tomas. “You need more rest.”

“So, what? We hang round here having a kip while some poor woman’s soul is torn to bits?”

“We don’t even know if she’s possessed. What did Bennett say?”

“He said enough.”

Tomas places a hand on his shoulder, and the world around them quiets. “Allow me to drive at least.”

Deep in Tomas’ eyes grows a spark. Were Marcus a poet, he might call it a longing. 

—

The case is a bust. 

“Psychosis strikes again,” says Marcus, leaning his head against the window of the truck. Still exhausted though he slept most of the drive. Perhaps the years are finally catching up.

“I’ll get us a room,” says Tomas.

“No. Just drive.”

In Joplin they get a six pack and find an open field and drink under the stars. 

“I’m worried about you,” says Tomas.

Marcus laughs. “You? Worried about me?” He takes a long swig of his beer and smiles. “Been doing this since before you were a twinkling in your parent’s eyes, Tomas. Worry about yourself.”

“You’re not getting any younger, and—”

“How many times are you planning on calling me old this week?”

“I’m just saying,” says Tomas, turning the whole of his body toward Marcus, “I don’t want you to burn yourself out.”

“Been burnt out since feathered hair was in. And here I am...”

“Marcus.”

“Tomas.”

Tomas curls a hand around his nape, the warmth of it a stark contrast to the cool night air. “Just for tonight, let us not be exorcists. Let us be friends.”

“Have we not been friends before tonight?”

“Friends knows things about their friends. I know nothing about you.”

Tomas lets his hand slip from Marcus’ nape and down to rest in the middle of his back. Marcus shuts his eyes, emptied of words and filled with something better. A presence and a warmth. The fleeting sensation that Tomas is reaching through his ribs and cradling his heart.

“I hardly remember my life before the church, Tomas. And what I do remember is bloody and sad. I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“You’ve never known anything beautiful?”

Marcus turns to him, their faces so close that the air in their lungs is the same. I’ve known you, he thinks, though he dare not speak the words.

I’ve known you.

—

They sleep in the truck, side-by-side in the cab, leaning against the windows. When they wake at the first hints of sun their bodies have shifted, pressing inward against each other. Marcus opens his eyes first, and is greeted with the sight of Tomas’ fluttering lashes, his shining eyes opening to the day.

“Morning, sunshine,” Marcus drawls, drawing an instant smile from Tomas.

Tomas yawns, rubs the sleep from his eyes, rests his head on Marcus’ shoulder. “You’re a better pillow than I imagined.”

“Been thinking about sleeping on me for a while, have you?”

“Much better than a window,” is all Tomas says before lifting his head, stretching, and starting the truck. “Breakfast?”

Marcus nods his agreement, and doesn’t take his eyes from Tomas as the truck rumbles into motion. They find a diner that serves them rubbery eggs and cold bacon and coffee so bitter neither of them finish their cups.

“One of these days, I’ll make you a proper English breakfast,” says Marcus.

“I didn’t know you cooked.”

“Friends should know things about their friends.”

They smile, and the server refills their cups with coffee they’re not going to drink, and the eggs taste like nothing at all, and Marcus can feel his heart swelling beneath his ribs.

And Marcus tucks the morning away like some beautiful thing.

—

They get a room and it’s cramped and cold, the space between their two beds so narrow they might as well be one.

“We should rest up,” says Tomas. “Be ready for when Bennett calls.”

“Once upon a time, you promised me a good drunken brawl,” says Marcus, flopping down onto the bed nearest the door. “Whaddaya say?”

“You want us to get into a bar fight at,” Tomas glances over at the bedside clock, “eleven in the morning?”

“What better time than the present?”

Tomas sighs, taking a seat next to Marcus on the bed. “I’ll drink with you tonight. And if you insist, I’ll even take a swing.”

Marcus laughs from deep down in his belly. A laugh that makes his bones ache. “Sounds like a hell of a night, mate. I’ll be there.”

“But first, I have an idea.”

“Does it involve a proper cup of coffee in my hands?”

“It might. Later. For now, lie back.”

“Gonna tuck me in and read me a story?”

“You watch me when I sleep,” says Tomas, and the words are like a jolt to Marcus’ heart. 

“What?”

“I caught you one morning. I don’t think you saw my eyes open. Just a little.”

Marcus can taste his heart rushing up to choke. “I wasn’t watching you.”

“I think we should sleep together,” Tomas blurts out, and when Marcus’ eyes go wide, Tomas realizes what he’s just said. “Not—I mean, next to each other. Side-by-side.”

“Why?” Marcus’ voice is so soft it barely registers.

“Because I think you need it. And maybe I do, too.”

All thoughts rush from Marcus’ head, like air pouring out of a room. He lies back on the bed, stiffly, with his jacket and shoes still on, and waits for Tomas to lie down beside him. And they sleep, just like that, with their shoes on and the curtains open. Their bodies parallel lines breathing as one.

—

Marcus wakes in the early afternoon, clinging to Tomas’ side and drooling on his shoulder. He startles upright, wipes his mouth, rubs at his bleary eyes. Tomas blinks awake, gazing up at Marcus with sleepy concern.

“Are you alright?” 

Marcus sighs. “Fine. Just… bad dream.”

The warmth of Tomas’ body is still spread all down Marcus’ chest, and in his hands he can feel the curve of every bone, even the ones he hasn’t touched yet. Especially those. The jut of a hip cradled in his palm. 

A hand to Marcus’ shoulder startles him back to reality. Tomas is gazing down at him, smiling. “How about we go find that coffee?”

They drive until they find a café that looks promising, and drink from steaming mugs at a corner table where Marcus can almost believe it’s just the two of them, the rest of the world having melted away.

“Better?” Tomas asks with a smile.

“Much better,” says Marcus.

In truth, the coffee’s not much better than what they were served at the diner. But Tomas is smiling, and through the window sun is shooting slats of gold into his hair, and that same sun is warming the nape of Marcus’ neck and spreading warmth down to his toes. 

“We could spend a few days here,” says Tomas, setting his mug down and winding his hands together on the table. 

“If we’re not needed elsewhere, I don’t see why not.”

“You could cook for me, maybe.”

Marcus smiles. “In our little motel room?”

The glint in Tomas’ eyes is nothing short of mischievous. “There’s a microwave and a hot plate. I don’t see what else you could possibly need.”

They finish their coffee and step outside. “I’ll drive,” says Marcus, and on the way back to their motel room he stops at the first grocery store he sees and buys everything he needs to make an omelette on a hot plate for the man that may just be the best friend he’s ever had in a cheap motel room in Joplin, Missouri. 

Marcus can feel Tomas’ eyes on him while he cooks. It’s awkward in the small space, and he makes more of a mess than might be reasonable, but his hands are shaking and his skin is warm and when he serves Tomas his omelette at the little table by the window the smile he receives in return is enough to turn his knees to water.

“This is incredible,” Tomas mumbles around a mouthful.

A blush spreads across Marcus’ skin, and he has to turn away. “It’s just eggs, Tomas,” he says.

“Yes, but eggs that you made for me,” says Tomas. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

“Not hungry. Maybe later.”

Tomas mumbles something Marcus can’t quite make out, and while he finishes his meal Marcus cleans and kicks off his shoes and strips down to a tank top and lies face down in the middle of the bed he and Tomas had shared that morning.

And while he isn’t particularly tired he drifts, and dreams of Tomas’ hands, upturned and dripping with holy water. The collar at his throat. The curve of his mouth.

Marcus wakes with an aching an hour or so later, one so deep he moans out loud without meaning to. He rocks his hips and ruts the hardness between his legs against the mattress, and nearly bolts out of his skin when he feels a hand at his back.

“That’s it, Marcus,” purrs Tomas. “Let it out.”

“Tomas.” Marcus turns his face to look at him, but can only bear it for a moment. But in that moment Tomas’ face is flushed, his jaw slack, and when Marcus buries his face in the mattress he does so with a long, anguished groan.

His hips continue rocking, and though it’s awkward with his pants on it’s enough. And then Tomas’ hand is at his nape, and in his hair, and he’s whispering things that Marcus has only allowed himself to imagine in his dreams.

When Marcus comes, it’s with Tomas’ name in his mouth. He holds it there, like a secret, before letting it out, and Tomas’ hands are everywhere, up under his shirt, against his skin.

It’s not until he’s come down and entirely spent that he allows himself to look at Tomas. And Tomas is looking at him, his own pants shoved down around his thighs with his cock in his hand, his other hand still up the back of Marcus’ shirt.

Tomas comes with a deep groan, spilling all over his hand, and as if driven by some primal urge, Marcus drags himself nearer to him.

“If only I could taste you,” says Marcus.

Tomas pulls his trembling hand from himself and presses two fingers to Marcus’ lips, slicking them with his release. Marcus moans and laps at them, gently, timidly, as if too much all at once may spell his end, and all the while Tomas’ eyes never leave him.

When Tomas pulls his hands away, Marcus feels at once so empty, but it’s not long before Tomas is lying face-to-face with him on the bed, their bodies curving together, breath spilling between them.

Lips so close Marcus can taste them, Tomas shuts his eyes. “Thank you for the omelette,” he says.

Marcus laughs. “You’re welcome.”

Marcus shuts his eyes, and together they rest.


End file.
